


In which Mr Norrell attempts a subterfuge, charitable ladies are maligned, and very little is learned

by Ilthit



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Community: jsmn-kinkmeme, Disguise, F/M, Illusions, Kissing, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-11
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:47:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4549062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ilthit/pseuds/Ilthit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mr Norrell disguises himself as Arabella to gain inside information about Jonathan Strange's intentions towards the Duke of Roxburghe's library. The plan backfires.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In which Mr Norrell attempts a subterfuge, charitable ladies are maligned, and very little is learned

It was not unlike Mr Strange to be late for an appointment, though in the ordinary course of things he was rarely late for one at his own house. Jeremy accepted Mr Norrell's hat and cape without explanation or apology and directed him to the Stranges' drawing-room. Mr Strange, he said, was meeting with his solicitor, while Mrs Strange was to dispense charity to London's poor with her ladies' society for the rest of the afternoon. 

It was as pretty as any drawing-room Mr Norrell had failed to appreciate since his move to London; pretty, but not grand, reflecting the tastes of its mistress. The oak paneling was not pretending to be birch, the mantel with its miniatures of Shropshire was simple and elegant in design, and the walls were a moderate brown accented with green. There was a sketchbook and pen laid neatly at hand on a table below the window and, on the tea-table, there was a mess of papers and books - three of them Mr Norrell's.

Mr Norrell declined brandy but requested a hot cup of tea, as the midwinter weather had chilled his bones on the short journey from Hanover Square.

So Mr Strange had gone to see a solicitor! One could only assume it was to settle his affairs before leaving for the Peninsula. Mr Norrell twisted his left hand in his right, pulling at his forefinger at the base. He was not happy - no. It was foolish to send Mr Strange out there to be shot at when he hadn't so much as peeked into Belasis yet. Yes, presumably that was Norrell's own doing, but these things should not be hurried. And what of their work in London? Was securing the Duke of Roxburghe's library really worth it?

Mr Norrell let go of his left hand when a maid came in with a tray. He nodded to the girl, then had to stop the silly girl from setting the tea down too near to the precious books. He moved them all to the table under the window. As she left, he opened one of them, and for a moment forgot girl, tea, and Peninsula all.

The book was a theoretical work by an early Argentine magician who had had a curious fixation on waterfowl. He attempted to match their patterns of migration to what he called fluctuations in the direction to the Other World. Wild geese, he wrote, nested in Faerie.

Certainly there were stories of minuscule men clinging to a goose's neck and getting very angry when one was shot down, and of geese turning into young men when the right conditions were met. Norrell had never sought out anything of the sort. He did not care for geese, and even less for the company of people who had recently been geese. Transformations, at any case, were usually mere illusions, and nothing in the world was easier than an illusion. Mr Norrell put the book down with a sigh. 

The clock above the mantelpiece had a pleasant, heavy tick. Mr Norrell had now been waiting for fifteen minutes. He remembered the tea and took up his lukewarm cup. 

January was a dreadful month to be going to war. What was Mr Strange thinking? Mrs Strange did not seem half as loath to let him go as Mr Norrell felt himself. If it wasn't for the library... It was a simple matter of practicality. The books must be preserved before they fall into the hands of some idle fool caught up in the romance of magic. The tragedy of Lady Pole's unfortunate situation would be as nothing compared to England run over by fairies summoned by lucky amateurs for all sorts of frivolous reasons. Even Mr Strange was not yet educated enough, not suitably  _wary_ , to be allowed to learn every kind of magic there was. But with Strange out of the country...

An awful thought struck Mr Norrell. Suppose Mr Strange decided to purchase the books via an agent? Did he know of the sale? Was that what his visit to the solicitor was for? Mr Norrell returned to tugging at his left index finger. If he asked Mr Strange directly, it would be as good as tipping him off about the sale. Everyone knew or had heard of Childermass these days, so there was no use sending him to make discreet inquiries with the solicitor.

The Stranges' house in London was constructed on a conventional plan. The front door opened into a brief hallway with doorways into the drawing room and the breakfast-room on the left, while at the end, beyond the staircase, were the entrances into the kitchen and, Mr Norrell supposed, the servants' quarters. Thus it was no surprise that the sounds of the front door opening and closing, the attending wail of winter wind, and Strange's shout of "Jeremy!" carried with no difficulty to where Mr Norrell stood. Jeremy's feet trundled by in the hallway.

Mr Norrell was at that moment seized by a strong desire not to be seen. He was not usually a slave to such desires, as they were common with him when the prospect of meeting anyone other than Childermass or Strange presented itself, but at this time the desire found itself an excuse. He could not let Strange guess his mind, and yet he had to know what Strange would do. The spell came to him quite easily, since he'd used it often enough to avoid unwanted company*.

"Mr Norrell, I hope you haven't been-- oh!" Mr Strange stood in the doorway, his face pinched pink by the wind, drops of ice still clinging to his gloves. His surprise twisted into his usual ironic smile, and for a moment Mr Norrell thought he was found out. "Jeremy said Norrell was here. He never mentioned you were home early." He closed the door behind him and tugged off his gloves, throwing them down next to the tray.

What had the man said? Something about charity? "I had a headache," said Mr Norrell. How did wives address their husbands? He did not suppose the Stranges were inclined to be formal. "Jonathan," he added.

"Nonsense, you've never had a headache in your life. The rest of womanhood envies you, and no doubt hopes you would stop undermining their complaints by flaunting such perfect health." Strange leaned down to kiss Mr Norrell's cheek.

Norrell was only a moment too slow to raise his face to be kissed, and so ended up with the side of his nose pressed to Strange's lips. Strange only laughed, but Norrell spun out from under his arm and escaped to the other side of the room. He had made a mistake. This wasn't anything like pretending to be a footman to a perfect stranger. The shorter he could make this game, the better.

"You're upset, my love. Did you run into Norrell? Was he very angry? It was only the blasted snow, and you know how long-winded Wyckham-Post can be. I shall have to send a note of apology and call on him tomorrow."

"Mr Norrell would like that, I think," said Mr Norrell. "But no, he is-- he was not angry."

"Then it must have been the Miss Woods who upset you."

Mr Norrell supposed it would be safe to nod. "I'd rather not talk about it." 

"Those harpies," murmured Mr Strange, and looked around. "You've moved my books."

"They were far too close to the tea. It might have spilled. You must take better care of them - they are very old."

"Now you sound like Norrell. Books are tools, Bell. It's the ideas that matter."

Mr Norrell was rather too shocked to move. And this was the man he was about to bestow forty precious volumes to! "It is the same thing. If you lose the book, you will lose the ideas."

"You  _have_  been talking to Norrell."

"In any case I suppose you will soon have books of your own to despoil and can leave at least some of Mr Norrell's in peace."

"Ah! He won't escape me so easily. I dare say Mr Norrell thinks to keep me waiting for another thirty years before he'll let me anywhere near Hurtfew, but I will wear him down before then. By the time I return from my commission, I will have done magic for Wellington himself. Let us hope Mr Norrell will take me more seriously then." He touched the side of the teapot to test its temperature. "I suppose that will do." He poured a fresh cup and offered it to Norrell.

"Must you go?" asked Mr Norrell. It was certainly a suitable thing for a wife to say, but he found he was asking for himself.

Mr Strange looked at him, then put the cup down. "Arabella."

Norrell forgot all about the Duke of Roxburghe's library. He found he could not look Strange in the eye, not when Strange was gazing at him - at Mrs Strange - with such a look on his face. He wrapped his arms around his waist to keep himself from twisting his hands.

Strange crossed the room in two long strides and took Mr Norrell's face between his hands, kissing him softly on the mouth. "My love, I will be quite safe. I will be the meekest mouse in the whole army, tucked far behind the army lines with my silver bowl and stack of books. You don't believe me."

Indeed, Mr Strange saw his wife turn first pale and then red, and when he kissed her again, he could feel her stiffen with fear for him even as she tilted her head up. He brought one hand around to rub her neck; though immune to headaches, Arabella sometimes developed a pain in her shoulders and neck when tense. With the other, he drew her closer.

"Mr Strange!" said Norrell in between the second and the third kiss.

"Mrs Strange," said Strange with an intimate grin, and kissed him a fourth time.

Mr Norrell had never seriously considered marriage, nor had he courted, and he certainly had never wanted anything to do with the sort of woman who would share such intimacies with a man not yet her husband. It was fine for footmen and housemaids, he supposed, but it was not his path in life and so he'd never given these kinds of relations much thought. His mother had kissed him, he thought, and at least one or two of his nurses. There had been one very unpleasant occasion at a tavern where there had been a misunderstanding about his requirements for his room. Then of course there had been that boy Edmonds at Harrow, but Norrell had not entirely agreed to that and the incident had been only slightly preferable to that awful affair at the tavern. In short, he had very little idea what he was doing.

And yet, with Mr Strange's fingers soothing on his neck, Mr Strange's tall body curled around his, and Mr Strange's mouth so gentle and coaxing on his own, he thought he might manage. He brought one arm up tentatively to grasp at Strange's coat. He had never imagined--

There was a muffled, heavy knocking from beyond the hallway. Mr Strange broke away with a frown. "I know that knock." So did Mr Norrell. Childermass had a way of conveying determination in every medium. Jeremy's heavy tread sounded again in the hallway, accompanied by a choice of curses.

"We'll have to tell him Mr Norrell has already left," said Mr Strange.

"I will do that!" said Mr Norrell, turning quickly away from Strange. "I... I believe I left my needle-box at... at Miss Woods' residence. I will tell him on the way out. Sit, have tea, Mr... Jonathan. Yes, I must make my apologies to Miss Woods. I see now I was entirely in the wrong."

"Arabella," said Strange. In the hallway, Childermass was telling Jeremy that he was to take Mr Norrell to the House of Commons that afternoon.

"I will see you at dinner, Jonathan," said Mr Norrell and rose to his tiptoes to give Mr Strange a peck on the cheek just as the door opened.

Mr Norrell was sure his face was as much a picture as Childermass's. He hadn't even thought of making the spell fool anyone but Strange. "Come, Mr Childermass," he said, pulling his servant into the hallway and closing the door on Strange, who had sat down and was scratching the back of his neck thoughtfully. Norrell grabbed his own coat and hat and the two of them plunged into the chilly, snow-bright street, where a carriage stood waiting.

Neither master or servant spoke as the coachman urged the horses to struggle through the wet snow, the carriage bobbing and rolling over the gathering banks. Hardly anything needed to be said, but Childermass watched Norrell for most of the way with a hint of unkind laughter behind his eyes.

\--

* This had given Lucas, Mr Norrell's footman and the person whose likeness Mr Norrell employed the most, the reputation of being London's rudest and most changeable servant, excepting perhaps John Childermass himself.


End file.
